I was on vacation in Sierra Leone, sitting in this flytrap bar for two hours, guzzling palm wine beneath a busted bulb and thinking about how many hipsters I could cram into a flat-rate mailer. My itinerary, thanks to the Riesling online travel agency, an agency exclusive to men who officially list their fists as carry-ons, included chartering a flight to one of the lowland patches along the mangrove swamps, where I’d bare-knuckle box with Liberian gunrunners, then camp out in the jungle where I’d wrestle silverbacks for territorial dominance.

After two hours, in came a woman wearing a skin-tight dress and skin-tight skin to match it. That dress defined a figure that made me want to teach her some new euphemisms.

She sashayed up to me. “Are you the Morrison Man?” she asked.

“That’s what it says on my lethal weapon registration form – otherwise known as the receipt for my bedroom furniture.”

She dipped her pinky into my wine and then touched it to my lips. Then she leaned in close. “I’m here to ride you in my plane.” She darted out her tongue like a river monitor, catching the wine drip off my mouth.

As if on cue, a half a dozen Gurkha mercenaries walked into the bar. I knew this wasn’t the start of a joke.

“We come for you, Morrison Man,” said the leader, a beef-eatin’ behemoth with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp.

I surveyed the rest of the bunch. “This isn’t a fair fight,” I said. “Unless, of course, I put on some pantyhose.”

They were on me like pit bulls on a pork chop.

I’ll spare the details for spatial concerns. Let’s just say the owners of the bar had no need for a paramedic. They did, however, have need for a janitor.

Now, there’s something you ought to know about me. When I fight, I sweat. And when I sweat, I exude a rare compound that has been known to impregnate women within a ten-foot radius. The woman had that look in her eye.

“They thought they could catch the Morrison Man off his guard,” I said, wiping Gurkha blood off my Bettie Page tattoo. “But what they don’t understand is that the Morrison Man is permanently glued to his guard with a high-rated, stress-resistant, industrial grade epoxy.”

I took a step closer. “Miss Riesling, I presume?”

My travel agent’s eyes grew wide.

“So, tell me why you hired those men,” I said plainly.


“Only two people on this earth knew my itinerary: you and my mother. And Mom’s at home knitting her boy a set of throwing-star cozies.”

She took a deep breath. “My company has been planning your vacations for years. You’re a legend, Morrison Man. I had to see for myself.”

I splashed some palm wine on my wound, then took her in my arms and, before sending her home, proceeded to add one more story to the legend.